


Asset Acquisition and Risk Management

by ceria



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banker!Phil, M/M, Vigilante!Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 12:50:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1649204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceria/pseuds/ceria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton is a vigilante and Phil Coulson is a bank manager. They meet anyway. As always, SHIELD is lurking in the background, trying to find a way to bring Clint into their organization. Eventually, they decide that Coulson is the best option.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Asset Acquisition and Risk Management

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this over a year ago and never posted it. *facepalm* It's for [this prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/10266.html?thread=22791194#t22791194%20) at avenger kink. Fair warning, the prompt is a detailed summary of this story since I stuck to it pretty close. I don't think there are any triggers, though Phil is a recovering alcoholic in this story and Clint is a vigilante who swears a lot. Concrit is always welcome; this is a little choppy and the ending is slightly abrupt, but I'm done looking at it.

"I swear I'm not into drugs," Clint said, spreading his hands, trying to make himself look harmless as the bank manager stared at him, lips pressed together in a tiny frown.

"You mean you're not taking them?"

"I mean anything to do with them. That's illegal."

"So is prostitution, yet I see them out on most every corner."

"Where are you hanging out, man?"

The look the manager, Mr. P Coulson, gave him almost left Clint squirming in his seat. He probably shouldn't have said that to the man he wanted to get a loan from.

"I've reviewed your financial records, Mr. Barton…"

"Which I suspected, since I bank here. So you know how much money I have available. That's good, right?"

"No."

"Why?"

"You haven't made a steady deposit in over a year, Mr. Barton. Granted, you have very little money going out beyond all your utilities, which are direct pay through the bank, but you have no recordable, reliable income. All your deposits are cash or personal checks."

"I work," Clint said, affronted by the negative tone the bank manager gave him. Who only sighed again.

"So you want a loan to buy a loft that you could pay cash for. You don't have a steady day job, you aren't 'into' drugs, and you don't want to say how you earned the money. You do understand why I don't want to give you a loan, right?"

"I just wanted to build some credit," Clint admitted finally. 

"Most people start with credit cards," Mr. Coulson replied and Clint rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, I'd rather not do that."

The placid, and very fake smile, irritated Clint but he wasn't ready to give up. Maybe it was the challenge in Coulson's bright eyes, he wasn't sure. "The only thing I can suggest, Mr. Barton, is to get a steady day job and come back with a few check stubs. And references."

"Thanks for your time," Clint said, standing up to leave.

 

And that was it, wasn't it? Clint didn't save people who looked like they would be upstanding references. Most of them weren't walking home alone after nightfall in the city because they couldn't afford public transportation. And it wasn't like the conversations he held with the people he helped were much more than 'I’m glad you're okay' and 'try and stay safe.'

He liked his shoebox-sized apartment but Mrs. Ferris, the landlady, really didn't appreciate the precautions Clint wanted to take. He thought the metal bars and new, more solid, door were good investments. She said it reminded her of a jail cell. Then she'd patted him on the head and said it was alright if he missed his previous residence.

He'd never been in jail, thank you very much. 

Well, not including the five times he'd been hired to break someone out but that's not the same thing.

Still, it had been nice of the bank manager to meet with him even if it got him no further toward purchasing his own place. He checked his watch as he approached the subway. Just enough time to get back and catch a nap before going out for the evening.

Mrs. Ferris might think Clint had a very active social life but what she didn't know what a good thing.

 

So what if he stayed close to the bank this evening? It wasn't like he'd worked out a schedule. Well, not officially. He knew how to avoid the more glamorous sections of town – the cops were often thicker there anyway. Jumping from ledge to fire escape to the next ledge was an excellent workout. Doing it silently while following three men dressed in black and lurking in the shadows? Fun times, man. 

When the shadows stopped moving and things began to feel anticipatory, Clint drew his first arrow and prepared. When he'd first started this fight he'd been too eager, too sure of the motives of people he didn't know. He'd been wrong a few times and that always left him uncomfortable. Clint could hear the clink of men's dress shoes from his perch; the shadows still until a man in a dark trench coat carrying a briefcase strode by the alley. Clint waited longer, until the three spread out and were reaching for the passerby. The man glanced over his shoulder, the briefcase hitting the ground as the first thug moved in, arm drawing back to hit. 

But he was just as surprised as the idiot when the businessman withdrew a can of pepper spray and used it. Grinning, Clint switched his sights to the second thug. The intended target flinched as he heard a thud and took two steps back when a third thud sounded in the shadows.

Shimming down the fire escape and easily landing when it ended several feet from the ground, Clint raised both hands, even if one had a bow in it. The man spun around, raising his hand as if to spray Clint. "I'm only here to help. I wish more people carried pepper spray, it would make my job a lot…" Clint trailed off as he got closer. At first, he'd thought the gentleman had black hair but no, he was wearing a dark beanie on his head covering an attractive, receding hairline.

"Mr. Barton?" Coulson asked, not pocketing the pepper spray but stooping to pick up the briefcase.

"Hi, sir."

"So, your job is extortion?"

"What? No!"

"You mean that's not why you're showing yourself right now? So I'm grateful and will give you money for saving me from these," Coulson waved a dismissive hand at the three on the ground. Clint noted it didn't shake at all, "thugs?"

"Jesus Christ, man. You're cynical."

"And you just shot three people," Coulson nudged the closest one with a dress shoe, "with _arrows_."

"You seem more surprised by the arrows than the fact I shot them."

"You have strange callouses," Coulson admitted.

"So do you," Clint said. "I would go so far as to suggest you handle a gun on a regular basis."

"I was robbed three years ago," Coulson admitted, watching Clint collect his arrows and then wipe off the tips before sheathing them again.

"What happened?"

"Self-defense class, bought some pepper spray and a gun."

"Yet you only carry the spray?"

"A gun is so much more…" he hesitated.

"Final?" Clint finished and Coulson nodded.

"But I like the feel of it in my hand. I like the protection of it in my home."

"Firing range then?" Clint asked and it was the strangest conversation he'd had standing over tranqed men with an almost-victim who wasn't the least-bit hysterical.

"Weekly usually. It's cathartic."

"So is running," Clint teased and Coulson smiled at him.

"I do that too." He glanced at the men again, then back at Clint.

"You're free to go, you know," Clint said. "I can call the cops."

"Are you going to wait for the police?" Coulson asked, slightly challenging him.

"No," Clint admitted.

"So you don't have to explain the dead men?"

"They're not dead. Probably."

"You shot them."

"Actually," Clint gently kicked one of the two he shot, "I tranqed them. The arrows were dipped in tranquilizer and while yes, I did shoot them, I didn't use a kill shot for any of them."

"Why not?" For a second Clint thought he was bloodthirsty but Coulson looked genuinely curious.

"That would make me a vigilante, not a rescuer." Coulson jerked in the direction he'd originally been walking but didn't actually leave. "I can walk with you, if you want," Clint offered. Because this was normal again.

"If you're going my way," Coulson said instead of yes. 

If it wasn't such an odd night, Clint would have leered at him. He'd done that before, of course, though it had never been his intention. The adrenaline of almost being attacked leeching into sex and a good breakfast in the morning. Clint hid his grin at the memory; Moira had been a lot of fun that night.

Companionable silence for several minutes and just as Clint was assuming that Coulson had no idea what to say, he asked, "Military or mercenary?"

"Excuse me?" Clint replied because no one ever really asked about him when he helped someone. It was always just copious thank yous or sometimes dinner or even just cash. Coulson nodded, is if that answered his question.

"Mercenary then. How did you fall into that?"

"Bit of a personal question, isn't it?"

Licking his lips, Coulson nodded as he glanced at Clint. They were almost the same height, Clint's boots probably making him a little taller than Coulson's dress shoes. "I was bullied as a child," Coulson said and Clint could believe that. They were average height for men but he'd been a late bloomer; always shorter and thinner until his late teen years when becoming a merc gave him access to weight training and regular meals. Coulson was much thinner than Clint and probably never had much body mass. "So my hero was always Steve Rogers. I began with comic books, moved on to trading cards and after college, started collecting war memorabilia. He was a hero, you know."

"I know," Clint said, thinking about the Commandos.

"But he was a regular guy before that."

"Before Erskine, you mean?" Clint asked, smirking and Coulson grinned at him.

"So you're not a merc anymore…" Coulson said, letting his voice trail off and Clint _got_ it. His bank's manager had a thing for heroes. Okay. Not an unpleasant surprise. 

"It's a long story," Clint said, glancing at the cab sitting on the closest corner, figuring Coulson would invite him home. He'd exchange the story for sex, not a problem. 

"How about dinner tomorrow night?" Coulson didn't even look nervous; like he asked out men every day. But then, maybe he did. 

"I'd like that," Clint said. Besides, it would give him some time to brush up on his Captain America trivia. Coulson handed him a card, writing his cell phone number on it and Clint pulled out phone from the inner pocket of his jacket, calling Coulson to return the favor.

"I'll call you to arrange a time?" Coulson asked, holding out his hand, and Clint nodded as he shook it. Giving in to temptation was brainless as he pulled Coulson closer and kissed him on the cheek, as near his mouth as he dared before a real date. Mostly because Coulson struck him as a traditionalist.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then."

~ * ~

"Barton," someone said behind him, four hours later and Clint sighed. Fuck. Usually they didn't find him this close to his apartment. Someone was getting better at tracking him.

"Listen Agent… we've had this conversation before. I'm not coming to work for you…" Clint turned around to face a tall man wearing an eye patch.

"I'm not an Agent, Barton."

Notching an arrow before the man finished the sentence, Clint raised one eyebrow.

He raised his empty hands, fingers wide. "I'm the Director."

"You're Fury?"

"In the flesh. How about we talk?"

"I've had enough coffee tonight, thanks."

"You could come with me to the helicarrier."

"No way," Clint said. "I've no desire to partake in your hospitality again."

"Agent Smith was out of line."

"For drugging me? Let me tell you, your good guy routine could use some work."

"Which is why I'm here, now. I promise you can leave anytime you like." He pointed at the quiver. "R&D has been working on some interesting designs for you. I'd like the chance to show them to you."

"I'd be happier if you mailed them to my PO Box." Clint and Fury both knew he'd helped the manager there last year and she was a doll who always re-forwarded his mail for him.

"Don't you know that lone wolves never last for long in this city? I want to protect you."

"I'm good," Clint said, backing away, glancing over his shoulder because there was no way that Fury was alone. And he felt eyes on his back, even if it didn't seem threatening yet.

"I'll meet you tonight after we both get some sleep? Dinner somewhere; maybe at Joe's Café? I hear they're excellent."

Fuckity fuck. Now Clint had to find a new, cheap diner to eat. "Sorry, got plans tonight," he kept the smirk off his face because he did have a date.

~ * ~

He woke that afternoon to his phone beeping with a new message and cursed that he missed the call. _'I bet you're sleeping still. I can leave work at five-thirty tonight. Do you want to meet me here, at six? I took the liberty of making reservations. It's not formal though Mama Lita tends to frown at jeans. Let me know.'_

Coffee first, then a return phone call. Which went straight to voice mail but that wasn't a surprise. "I'll be there at six – proper attire and all. I don't like the idea of anyone named Mama Lita disturbed with me _and_ making my dinner."

Coulson would most likely be in a suit, possibly without the jacket so Clint dressed in charcoal gray slacks and matching vest with a long-sleeve lavender shirt. It left enough time to page through Captain America sites. 

This time, Coulson pulled him in, a brief kiss against his lips, making Clint grin. "And I don't even know your first name."

"It was on my business card, Clint."

"Where's the fun in that?" he asked and Phil rolled his eyes, but held out a hand. 

"It's Phil. Nice to meet you, Clint."

"The pleasure's all mine," Clint replied and didn't let go of his hand while he walked backwards to the cab waiting for them. Phil gave the directions and Clint paid once they arrived.

Mama Lita greeted Phil with a kiss on both cheeks and a hug for Clint. They ended up seated in a corner while Lita's niece, Rosalie, brought water – in a glass for Clint and a sealed bottle for Phil - and bread to their table. "I don't drink," Phil said, "but if you want something…"

"Water's good," Clint said, breaking the small loaf by hand and taking half of it. Phil just looked at him and didn't comment and Clint stuttered to a stop. "Are you thinking I should have used a knife to do that?"

"Actually," Phil said with a smirk, "I'm thinking about my last date."

"Comparing already?"

"He lectured me for doing that, informing me it wasn't polite to fondle his food before asking."

Snorting with laughter, Clint only said, "I bet you didn't get to fondle much that night."

"No, I really didn't."

Dating in the city was different, Clint knew. First dates meant sex, even if you split the cab fare and dinner bill. Often even if you didn't care for the date, you were expected to provide some sort of orgasm. "I give you permission to fondle whatever you like," Clint teased.

"Actually," Phil sat back, watching him closely, "I'm willing to wait."

"You don't even know me," Clint said.

"I like what I know already," he admitted and Clint nodded in agreement. He'd had enough dates and one-night stands to know things were different already.

"Yeah, okay." His cheeks felt warm.

"Have you decided yet?" Rosalie asked and Clint shook his head, finally looking away from Phil.

"I'm good with the special," Phil said, "but give us a few minutes, please."

"No," Clint said. "That's fine with me too."

"Did you even see it?" he asked after she left and Clint raised one eyebrow at him, reciting what had been on the chalkboard near the door.

"Good catch."

"Sniper," Clint replied and Phil leaned close again.

"I believe you were going to tell me about that?" So Clint did; about the orphanage, then the circus then being on his own as soon as he turned eighteen with no GED or formal education beyond sword fighting and archery. He'd tried out for the Olympics even but left after his second day; the people who would have been his teammates ribbing him over his not-quite-perfect form and lack of proper equipment.

"There's a proper form?"

"Oh yes," Clint said, pausing as Rosalie refilled their waters. 

"And yours isn't perfect?"

"I haven't missed a shot since the trials," Clint admitted. 

"Ever?"

"Ever."

"Do you use anything besides a bow?"

"Of course," Clint said. "But arrows are cheaper than bullets in the long run." He didn't mention he reused them as much as possible. "And there's no need for a silencer."

"Rifle?"

"Of course. I had to as a merc." Dinner arrived and both of them were silent, enjoying their meals. When some of the ravioli slipped off his fork as he tried to eat it, Clint glanced up embarrassed, but Phil only laughed good-naturedly. Clint decided right in that moment he could keep this one and be satisfied for some time.

"So tell me about Captain America collectibles," Clint asked following dinner once the table was cleared and Mama Lita, satisfied they were both comfortable and currently full, suggested they stay and continue to talk. 

"She likes you," Phil said after she left and Clint shrugged, figuring that Phil told most people the same thing. "Don't you dare suggest she does that for all my dates because I'm telling you now, I've never brought anyone here."

Clint wanted to not feel special about that but failed miserably. "How do you know her?"

"She's a good friend of my godmother and my aunt."

"Is this going to get back to your family?" Clint teased and Phil's ears turned red. A definite yes.

"The rarest items," Phil said, with a sheepish grin at the obvious subject change, "are the things that belong to the Howling Commandos. Rogers didn't have any family left but his teammates did and those items are the ones that are hard to find. Apparently they sent home pictures he'd drawn or mementos from the various locations and battles they fought. "

"I thought Howard Stark claimed most of them?"

"That's the rumor," Phil confirmed. "He and Rogers were close friends and had visited most of the families of the Commandos after their deaths."

"No doubt his money had something to do with it," Clint said and Phil nodded in agreement. "So I have another question," Clint said, glancing at the water bottle.

"Five years sober," Phil replied without prompting.

"Congratulations," Clint said and Phil smiled like Clint had passed an unspoken test.

~ * ~

Dinner once a week turned into twice a week and over the next couple months, became cooking at Phil's to just stay in. 

"I want to stay," Clint whispered into Phil's neck. They hadn't paid attention to whatever was on the television for over twenty minutes.

"I’m not going anywhere," Phil said and Clint huffed, biting him. He wasn't sure what was going on but Clint knew something was. Phil talked about sex and liking it, they kissed and touched each other all the time and had rubbed off against each other more times than Clint could count. He was sure it wasn't trauma-related unless Phil just hid it really, really well.

"Tonight. I want to stay with you." Phil didn't freeze up exactly, just hummed and shifted slightly away.

"You don't want me to," Clint said, drawing back, hiding all of his emotions. They could talk about this, damn it. He _would_ talk about it. Phil just looked away for a second and Clint sighed. "If you're worried I'll be upset, then stop it. I'm not going to shoot you if you're unhappy and want out, Phil."

"Unhappy? What?" Phil's eyes widened. "I don't want to break up with you!"

That was always good to know. "If you don't like sex we can talk about this," Clint mumbled, looking at Phil's lap.

"That's not it," Phil said, taking one of Clint's hands in both of his.

"I keep thinking I’m doing something wrong here, Phil."

"I want you to stay too," Phil said, voice slightly strangled, and Clint tilted his head. He suspected that 'stay' meant something different for each of them.

"How long?"

"Forever?" Phil asked, smiling at him and Clint just blinked. "You said Mrs. Ferris wouldn’t let you change the apartment to how you wanted it. I own this place and I don't care if you change anything."

"Are you asking me to move in?" Clint asked, just to clarify, and Phil nodded once.

"We do live in New York," he said and Clint just laughed. Phil flinched and Clint shook his head, drawing him into a hug.

"You could have just said you were saving yourself for marriage, you know."

"But I didn't. I'm not…" Clint interrupted him with a kiss. They had talked about that already; how both of them hadn't thought of sex as anything more than a fun release in the past and that neither of them wanted to treat the other that way.

"I love you too but I'd feel more comfortable with a compromise."

Phil relaxed in his grip. He didn't say the words back but Clint didn't need to hear them to know how Phil felt. "Talk to me, Barton."

"I'll move in if you really want me to and yes, I want to marry you. I just need some time to adjust to the idea, all right?" Because everyone Clint had ever cared about had left him and Phil knew that. 

"So a long engagement? Define long."

Clint shrugged and blurted out the first thing he could think of. "One year."

"Agreed," Phil said.

Clint took a deep breath and pushed Phil away from him. "There's one more thing you need to know though."

"What's that?"

"A government agency has been pursuing me for the last six months. They want me to work for them."

"Why do you consider this bad news?"

"If I live here, they might find out about you."

"It's our government and they haven't forced you to work for them?"

He shifted a little and Phil narrowed his eyes. "Their methods have been a little unorthodox in the past. But the Director assures me that the Agent who drugged me was reprimanded."

"The _Director_? How many times have you been approached?"

"Ten in total, outside of the drugging incident. And the seduction attempt."

That had Phil pulling back and sitting upright. "And when was that?"

"Sixteen weeks ago." He could tell Phil was counting backwards in his head, "about three weeks before we met."

"And the last one?"

"That was two weeks ago," Clint admitted with a sigh and Phil ran a hand through his hair.

"Do you think you're in danger?" he asked and Clint shook his head.

"Nothing I can't handle. It's actually tapering off but I wanted to make sure you knew about it. Since we're getting married and all," Clint said, grinning at him.

"Oh my god," Phil replied, rolling his eyes. "So there's no other secrets hanging out there I should know first?"

"Don't think so," Clint said, sliding closer on the sofa, dropping one leg over Phil's to get rid of the distance between them.

They promptly stopped talking after that.

~ * ~

The bed was narrow and softer than Phil preferred. The ceiling lights were still on and for a moment, Phil thought he was back at his mother's, where he'd stayed for a short time after leaving the army when he'd been recovering. She'd always thought that leaving a light on would help the nightmares. Phil never corrected her.

His nose itched and he raised one hand to scratch it – only to have it come way short with a painful tug. What the hell? Noises filtered in pretty quickly from there, completely unfamiliar sounds and he opened his eyes to find himself in a bed in what looked like a medical facility, an iv taped to his right hand, the walls all gunmetal gray.

Memory came back just as quickly as the senses after that; he'd left work at the normal time, planning to meet Clint at his old apartment to grab his last few things to finish the move but…

"How are you feeling?" a man asked. Phil would have called him a Doctor but he didn't think he was actually in a hospital. Not without Clint being present.

"Who are you?"

"Doctor Jenniah," he said and Phil rolled his eyes, leaving himself a little dizzy.

"Did I get hit on the head?"

"You were mugged, Mr. Coulson. A random passerby called it in and the police brought you to NYPH at…" he consulted the file, "ten-thirty last night."

Phil could tell the man he was a liar. Most likely an Agent would be along shortly. He needed more information. He moved his feet, both apparently untethered and smiled shakily at the man. "I could use some water, please." The Doctor poured some from the pitcher and that almost verified what Phil suspected.

"I'm sorry, I only drink from sealed bottles," he said, as if he regretted the inconvenience, "recovering alcoholic." He'd had surgery at NYPH before and _knew_ that was in his file.

"I'll have a nurse bring you a bottle," he said, leaving Phil alone.

It only took twenty minutes for a suit to appear, knocking on the door while Phil drank straight from the plastic bottle.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Mr. Coulson, but if you're feeling up to it, I'd like to fill out a report."

"Sure, Agent…" Phil said and the man shook his head.

"Detective Sutton, Mr. Coulson, with the NYPD. Can you tell me what you remember?"

"May I?" Phil asked and the badge Sutton flashed him, along with the ID, looked official.

"I remember leaving work around quarter to six."

"Anything else?"

"Nothing at all," Phil admitted, which was the complete truth. "The doctor said I arrived here at ten-thirty?"

"You'd been mugged. Your driver's license must have been in a separate location from your wallet, because it was in your inner jacket pocket but we couldn't find a wallet or a cell phone."

That was probably the truth. Phil's suits were tailored by an old friend and it had been Clint's idea two months ago for him to carry twenty dollars cash, one credit card and his ID in a tiny, zippered pocket inside his suit coat. Phil usually always did that because it made Clint more comfortable. Except yesterday, he'd used the card to pay for lunch and the cash to pay for the tip for the girls in the bank and had slipped the change, and his credit card, into his wallet without thinking about it. Figured.

"Is there anything else you remember that you could tell us? Maybe a noise or a smell or something a little odd about last night?"

Phil focused on Sutton again, frowning. I've got a four-hour gap in my head at the moment, Detective. I'm afraid not."

"Amnesia isn't uncommon in trauma victims, Mr. Coulson."

"May I see my suit?" He needed time to think. Assuming it was the following morning, the bank would open in a couple hours for the short Saturday service times. Clint would be there, looking for him.

"Pardon me?" Sutton asked and Phil just waited.

"It was with me last night, looking at it might trigger a memory."

Sutton hesitated then went over to a closet and took it off a hanger. "You have very good taste, Mr. Coulson."

"Thank you," Phil said looking at it while Sutton turned it around, front to back. Sutton obviously did not. His suit was ill-formed and slightly too large in the waist, as if Sutton recently lost weight.

"Anything?"

"No, I’m sorry."

"There's one other thing I'd like to try, if you're feeling up to it," Sutton said and Phil nodded. The detective brought over a black folder and opened it up. "Since you can't remember much from last night, I thought maybe you've seen someone in the bank recently. Criminals tend to investigate first. This features suspected criminals we can always bring in for questioning, if any of them look familiar."

Something was niggling in the back of his head and Phil couldn't figure it out. They had to know about Clint's appointment three months ago for a bank loan. He'd been in and out of the bank since they started dating as well. Alicia, one of the tellers, usually took the few seconds to greet him by name when he came in to see Phil. She always worked Saturday mornings. 

Phil shook his head to the first three pages. Clint's picture was on the fourth.

He sneezed and wrinkled up his nose. "Kilian," he said and Sutton frowned at him.

"Is that his name?" he asked, pointing at Clint's picture.

"No, it's your cologne. You're wearing Kilian." Phil knew because he used to own a bottle of it. Well, it had once been a present from Michael and Phil hadn't kept anything that man bought him.

"You have a good nose," Sutton said and Phil didn't reply with 'and you have expensive taste.' So, either Sutton was lying or Phil really wasn't in a hospital.

"I’m sorry, I'm tired. Can I rest for now?"

He'd been mugged before and while it wasn't something Phil liked to think about, he needed to know. He hadn't shown up last night; Clint would be worried – and probably searching for him. If these were really the police, Clint would stake out the bank and talk to Alicia as soon as they left. It's possible he really was mugged, but something else wasn't quite right.

He stared at the door, where Sutton had returned his suit and then Phil realized what it was. It was clean. New York was a _dirty_ city. Hell, he'd destroyed trousers once just by falling to his knees when a biker had knocked against him. His suit was clean; if he'd been mugged and knocked out, his suit would be a mess.

He also didn't suspect that these were bad guys, else he'd be locked up instead of in a room that sorta looked like a generic hospital room. He pulled the iv from his hand and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He needed a clear head and whatever they were giving him – it wasn't meant to give him a clear mind. And Clint needed time to find him.

By the time he stood up, Sutton had returned to the threshold. "Mr. Coulson, you shouldn't be standing."

"I wasn't mugged last night, Sutton; you and I both know it. Now help me to the bathroom so I can piss and get dressed. Then we'll discuss Barton."

Sutton smirked and straightened up, setting the files and black folder onto the table. "I knew you had to be smart but I didn't expect you to catch on so quickly." He looked up, "The vent up there is fake, so don't try and escape that way."

"I'm a forty-year-old banking exec, not a circus clown, Sutton. I'm going to the bathroom, getting dressed and then I want a cup of coffee, please."

"That doesn't come in a sealed plastic bottle."

"Understood. Then maybe we could move this meeting to a room with a coffee pot so I can watch it be made. Is that acceptable?"

Sutton grinned at him and nodded.

Sutton gave Phil a cane and for a moment, he wished he knew enough about self-defense to be dangerous with it. Instead, he followed the Agent to a conference room with a coffee pot at one end of the table. A beautiful woman with bright red hair nodded to him, then handed him an unopened container of grounds, two mugs, and sealed dry cream and sugar.

"Thank you," Phil said and she started the coffee and sat on a stool in the far corner of the conference room.

"ETA?" Sutton asked.

"Forty minutes."

"That's less than Fury's estimate," Sutton replied and she raised one eyebrow at Phil before glancing at Sutton again. Only then did he realize that was how long they had until Clint arrived. 

Nodding once, Sutton opened a manila folder and spread twenty or so pictures across the table. "Do you know what they have in common?" he asked Phil.

"No," Phil said.

"They've all been murdered by your boyfriend, Mr. Coulson."

"Contracted, I think is the correct term," and Sutton frowned, looking up at him.

"Pardon me?"

"Clint is – was – a mercenary. I'm going to assume those are all contracted hits."

"So you know what your boyfriend does for money?"

"Did," Coulson said, getting up to get some coffee. Sutton didn't move, but the woman shifted on the stool.

"I have no idea who you are, ma'am, but I expect you could kill me in ten seconds. It's early and I have a headache from whatever I was knocked out with last night. I'm just getting a cup of coffee." 

She smiled at him, but still tensed when he filled it up, as if she expected him to throw it at her. Phil shook his head in exasperation and only then did she relax. "Five," she said and he tilted his head in question. "It wouldn't even take five seconds to incapacitate you."

"You assume that Barton is no longer a merc?" Sutton said and Phil sat, not answering until he took a drink.

"That's correct."

Sutton took another folder and spread out fifteen more pictures. "These are the people he's killed since moving to New York twelve months ago," he said.

Phil hesitated with the cup and then continued to raise it up, taking another drink. "You're exaggerating."

"Excuse me?" Sutton said and Phil glanced at the woman, who looked like she was hiding a smile.

"Clint's not been killing the thugs he shoots to my knowledge. He's putting arrows in non-lethal body parts and hitting them with tranquilizers."

"So you think he's what? An angel of mercy?"

Phil stuttered with the cup as he picked it up and knew it was a mistake; Sutton caught it immediately. "You really do."

"How do you think we met?" Phil asked and Sutton withdrew another piece of paper. This time a screen shot of Phil's Outlook calendar with their first meeting in yellow highlight.

"No," Phil said and Sutton furrowed up his brow, making wrinkles across his bald head that would have made Phil laugh under different circumstances. 

"Someone tried to rob me that night, Clint stopped them."

"What a coincidence," Sutton said and Phil rolled his eyes. 

"You think he arranged it for what?"

"You're gay and Barton is bi," Sutton said with finality. 

"And I'm disturbed, but not actually surprised, at how much you've investigated." Sighing, Phil put the empty cup down. "You realize this is a mistake, don't you?" he asked.

"Why?"

"You want Barton to join your agency and when he didn't respond positively to your last twelve offers, you decided to force another meeting by kidnapping his partner?"

"Ten," Sutton said and Phil laughed. "And you're not considered a criminal – or even dangerous - therefore you can't be his partner."

"I think the drugging and seduction attempts should be counted, Agent Sutton."

The woman in the corner moved and Phil flinched; he'd forgotten she was there. "Domestic partner, not partner-in-crime, Sitwell," she said before standing up, noticeably glancing at the blinking light in the corner of the room behind Phil. 

"This has been fun," she looked at Phil. "I've been a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Coulson, I'm Natasha Romanoff," she held out her hand and as soon as Phil stood to shake it, she wrapped handcuffs around his wrist and fastened him to the table. "We're out of time, Sitwell. Go lead the Agents; I'd suggest non-lethal force. I'll stay here with Coulson."

He left the room, locking the door behind him as the lights flickered briefly off. Natasha grinned, making Phil shudder. Then she unzipped her black outfit, pulling out two knives, presenting them on the far end of the table. She followed those with another from her boot and two guns. Dragging Sutton's – Sitwell's? – chair to the far side of the table, she turned it around and sat down in it.

"Have you ever considered a career working for the government, Mr. Coulson?" she asked.

"Once," he said. "But it didn't agree with me."

"Let me guess: Turkey?" she said, taking a piece of paper out of a pocket in her suit and unfolding it so they could both look at it. 

"Not interested," Phil said, turning away. He knew what information had to be on that.

"But this is why you left the Army, isn't it? And why you started drinking? You couldn't stomach the fact that they blamed you even though your superior officer screwed up. And your best friend died on that mission, didn't he?"

"All my friends died on that mission, Agent Romanoff, except me."

"What if I told you that Marcus…" the grate above them crashed onto the table and Clint dropped through, arrow aimed at Natasha even before Phil finishing flinching from the noise.

"Barton," she said, "nice of you to drop by."

"Romanoff," he replied, not turning away from her to look at Phil. "Why are your guns and most of your knives at the other end of the table?"

"So you'd know I want to talk." She settled both of her hands, slowly, on top of her head. 

"Phil, are you all right?" he asked.

"I'm fine, Clint. Handcuffed to the table but nothing else is wrong."

"You have good taste," Natasha said and Phil turned to look at her again.

"I know," Clint said, smirking at her.

"I don't understand something," she continued, still watching Clint.

"What?" 

"He's a civilian, and a military dropout. He's just a suit, not an agent. How did you know you could trust him?"

"I _chose_ to trust him. And before you tell me I'm getting sloppy, which you know isn't true or I wouldn't have gotten past every Agent and soldier on this boat except you, I'm going to tell you one more thing."

"What's that?"

"Budapest."

She scowled but nodded, slowly moving one hand to slide the keys to the handcuffs across the table toward Phil.

"We're even, Barton."

"Until the next time," he said, apparently agreeing with her. Phil freed his hand and stood up, removing one of Clint's arrows from the quiver. "It's strong, it'll only take a little cut to knock her out." She let Phil cut the back of her hand and snarled at Clint, moving slower than normal, but it worked too quickly and she collapsed before she stood up straight.

"Jesus," Clint said, finally relaxing and lowering his bow. "I was fucking terrified when you didn't show up last night." He yanked Phil into his arms and kissed his cheek, running one hand over his head and down his side. "You sure you're all right?"

"I'm good," Phil said, eying the vent above them. "So, tell me how we're getting out of here?"

"Why don't I show you instead?" Clint said, grinning at him. He held out one hand and Phil took it, nodding in agreement. He could do this.

~ * ~

Nick Fury watched the live feed from the conference room, thankful he'd installed a second, separate system in there just in case Barton knocked their computers offline. Tapping his chin he glanced at Hill, nodding once. "Turn off the alarm."

"Are you sure, sir?" she asked as Romanoff collapsed onto the ground. 

"Positive." He said. "I know what needs done to get Barton on board with us. Not to worry." It had been a long time since he'd seen Coulson – but Nick remembered enough about his old Army buddy to make things work. He tapped the Captain America file on his desk then shoved it toward Hill. "We're going to start with this."


End file.
